


A twisted fate

by Mirdala



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Brainwashing, Father-Son Relationship, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Talon Jesse McCree, who thinks he's
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-08-04 17:17:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16350869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirdala/pseuds/Mirdala
Summary: Talon hands Reaper a new asset as a gesture of good will and to showcase improved techniques in making new Talon assets. Now Reaper and an unexpected ally or two, work to right damage done to Jesse McCree before he loses himself entirely.





	1. Asset Acquired

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SaltCore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltCore/gifts).



> SaltCore and I threw angst cookies at each other one night, turned into binary angst black-holes, then this came about.

“Damn it all. Sorry, Boss, had a hard time shaking the doc—”

They freeze mid-step, mid-sentence stopping half way up the cargo ramp of the transport, taken aback. Brows pinched at finding Reaper’s shotgun pointed at their chest.

Reaper blinks hard to erase what he’s sure, is a mental image of Jesse McCree pressed atop the actual person in front of him. He’s sure it’s a trick of the low lights and deep shadows. The glow of the holotable to his side. The man has just similar enough features to remind him of someone else. Sounds just close enough to trick his ear.

He’s sure it’s just a memory, one of many from another life sealed away, slipping out. When events are too similar. When his given task is too reminiscent of the countless missions he had done in that other life. Clearing out countless holes of gun runners or terrorist cells. Going area to area, clearing it out of hostiles. Ridding it of low life scum.  

With the slightest of physical motions he tries to clear the memory from his mind, from the person standing there who he’s sure can’t be McCree.

He’s sure because he keeps careful tabs on all recalled Overwatch agents, new and old. He would know if McCree was in the area. Plus McCree wouldn’t be standing on a Talon transport, with the element of surprise, and not taking the first shot at Reaper, a known Talon member.

A target.

An enemy.

The person in front of him still looking like McCree slumps their shoulders. “Aw come on Jefe!” Throwing their arms out in exasperation, cargo ramp closing behind them. They walk right up to him, removing their hat to shake out brown hair seeming to take the lack of response and raised shotgun as irritation. They give a sigh and turn to the holotable.

While true to form in years long, long passed, the silence now has nothing to do with irritation.

Disbelief silences him. This couldn't be true. It couldn't. McCree’s cannot here. He can't be. Reaper made sure, hadn't he? Yes, he did. He planted the data. The bread crumbles for—

Everything shifts, all at once. The world tilts a few degrees independent of the transport taking off. His mind reeling and piecing together the twisted reality in front of him.

A hole at the center of his being opens, sucks the air out of his lungs, his airways collapsing in on themselves with his last exhale.

Everything tumbles into the depths of that hole. The bottom of his stomach. The certainties he held in his bones. The rigid control he keeps over his form, the edges of him float off, drawn into the pneumatic system of the transport, vented into the atmosphere.

The hole widens with the realization Jesse McCree, former second in command to Blackwatch Commander Gabriel Reyes, gunslinger, outlaw, is in fact standing next to him.

Smiling at the bad end of a shotgun.

Silenced by how incredibly wrong he had been.

A message blinks onto his mask’s interface sent by Talon’s operative within Vishkar.

//HIGH PRIORITY//

//Testing updated cognitive conditioning methods. Promising results. Less side effects. Time efficient. Field test latest asset during mission. Report any deficiencies.//

The message, like the horrific revelation, wrenches the pit in him wider still. Drawing anything within him into itself, leaving a hollowness in his chest.

A swarm of thoughts buzzing in Reaper’s head brings him back to the present. McCree continues to complain about being placed on light duty for an injury, his arm, how he’s more than ready to get back in the saddle.

“I swear, no heroics. Not if it means running boots into the ground every day for weeks.”

The comment puts a hard stop to the gathering static, the whirlwind of thoughts in Reaper’s head.

Reaper lowers the shotgun.

The devouring pit grows.

Weeks?

McCree had entered Mexico before going off the grid, going south not more than a full week ago. Sent to scout out abandoned Talon bases. Low on scale of danger and risk. Where keeping a low profile and getting the hell out of any danger was mandated.  Reaper knows this because he had by proxy put McCree on this mission.

Overwatch, by a not so serendipitous way, recovered a cache of locations during their most recent raid on a Talon facility. Bread crumbles, a trail to information enticing enough for them to go after, to send the one person they knew had the skill set and history to handle the task. Who they trust enough to believe the data recovered wasn’t tampered.

A cakewalk for an experienced black ops agent. To purposely put McCree out of Reaper’s current path. He preferred their paths didn’t cross.

No, it hadn’t been weeks.

A searing heat sparks from his heart, flames of anger began to fill the emptiness in his chest. Covered the widening hole in his gut.

He’ve caught wind of what Vishkar was doing if they had spent weeks on their new project. If McCree went missing for such a long period of time. In the instant he discovered their actions he would have skinned them alive, a centimeter at a time with a dull hot blade.

Over days.

Over _weeks_.

Now…

Now they would pay to the fullest extent.

An unknowing, unexpected hellish consequence for their actions.

Their audacity.

Reyes draws himself up to his full height and breadth fists balled at his side, every bit the visage of a true bringer of death.

Names quickly began to populate a list. Names of any technicians and playing-at-god lab coated fucks he could squeeze for information. Then his list would begin anew, refined, where each named person’s eyes will burn alight with terror as Death descended upon them, heralded by thunderous booms.

They will be ripped apart limb by limb, joint by joint.

The snapping of their own tendons will echo in their minds.

Each part of their bodies withering to dust in his hands.

Their fates sealed by their own _achievement_.

A single blue face blank of any expression slams to the forefront of his mind. It sends a chill running across Reyes’ skin, under the layers of armor and leather, his heated fury swallowed by the depthless cavity yawning open even further.

_Promising results…time efficient…less side effects..._

His eyes skate across the map above the holotable to McCree across from him, both hands placed in plain view. Reyes tightens his fingers on the pistol grip of his shotgun.

He shouldn’t have looked away.

In the two weeks before Amélie killed Gérard, she had been...off. Everyone attributed it to the trauma she went through. He had also been so very sure of her strange behavior. Very few can walk away from a kidnapping with their sense of safety still intact, least of all a civilian with no training. No one had even considered the far fetched idea she had been neurally reconditioned into a sleeper agent.

The crater in him sighs, dread and suspicion swell out as a cold fog.

After infiltrating Talon's ranks Reyes suspected to find more assets like her.

He didn’t.

Or had he? Another certainty falls into the abyss.

The odds of anyone having been neurally reconditioned without the skin blueing side effect had increased exponentially. McCree standing here on the way to a mission for evaluation, provided enough evidence. Talon had finally improved their methods. Vishkar, it seems, has even figured out a way to take it one step further, streamlining the process.

Taking less time than before.

Twisting someone, despite being trained thoroughly to resist.

Someone as strong willed as McCree.

An ideal candidate for reconditioning. With the many skills he honed while in Blackwatch and on the run. He remains to be what Reyes saw him as decades ago.

A valuable asset.

The hole collapses on itself. The only certainty left within Reyes that holds true causes the hole to implode. Pressurizes and condenses into a single heavy pillar of despair. So cold it burns. A sharp inhale does nothing to relieve the pain.

“You ain’t still mad, are ya? Look I learned my lesson. No more stunts.” McCree wiggles the fingers of his metal hand after placing his hat back on but the hand isn’t the one Reyes had seen before from the few images that happened to catch McCree around the world. The fingertips are sharp like his own gloves, a gunmetal black rather than chrome and brass, a dull red seeping from the seams. McCree reaches up and selects another map for the mission.  

He wears gear similar to his old Blackwatch uniform. Blacks and dark greys, accented with reds. He wore a long coat, reaching down to the tops of his calves rather than his serape. Hat was the same. Spurs. A bright belt buckle noticeably absent.

McCree’s constant running from the law and bounty hunters showed. His face has more lines, he’s a bit thinner than might be considered a healthy leanness. Yet even after all this time McCree carries himself with an easy nonchalance. Leaning carelessly on the table, eyes lazily peering up at the map. If anyone were around, they’d be fooled by his bored expression, not knowing McCree had quickly absorbed the information above of him, already working on possible tactics for the mission.

As he had been trained to do by his commander.

Like no time has passed.

The years of arguments, tension, bitter disappointments, and anger gone.

Erased.

The cold burning finally subsides. A twisted column welded in place. Anchoring him in a hard truth.

This sure as shit is not Jesse McCree.

McCree wouldn’t stand near Reaper--near Reyes with an easiness about him. Because Reyes pushed McCree out. Cornered him into leaving Blackwatch knowing he would go down with the ship if he stayed. So Reyes threw him overboard in the middle of a shitstorm. All in a move to keep him protected. To not end up dead by Talon’s attacks or prosecuted with all Blackwatch’s dirty missions on his hands.

“Nothing like putting fear with a capital F into some souls.” McCree digs into his coat, pulls out a dark fabric not having moved from his position at the table. “What's wrong?” He says while stretching the bandana over his face, securing the ends at the back of his head.

Reyes fucked up.

Chains snake out from the column, tether and pull his insides down, the constriction in Reyes’ chest returns tenfold. The world goes a bit blurred no matter how wide his eyes open.

Talon did it again.

Slipped by him unnoticed. Whether he was the intended target or not, the damage done.

The victim claimed.

He let it happen.

On his watch.

Again.

A glaring oversight resulting in McCree being strapped to some chair or table in a lab, his mind scrambled. Addled. Rewritten.

To repurpose him.

Reyes forces his breaths to be more than a shallow gasp, his body to not sag. His mask covers the pinch of his brow, the deep frown, the guilt seeping out of his eyes. All the measures he had taken, the diversions, the false leads.

Oh, how he had royally fucked up.

Vishkar hadn’t been a priority for him. He underestimated, he overlooked their capabilities. He knew what they could do, seen it in their architects. Allowed himself to be caught off guard. So many times he ensured the gaps in his knowledge were bridged to protect who he—

“Don’t worry Boss. In between running the boots into the ground, I squeezed in a few hours at the range.” He gives Reyes a wink, eyes crinkled in a smile he can’t see, above the distorted upper half of a coyote’s skull printed on the bandana.  

Their masks matched.

The top half of a coyote’s skull, the orbits of the eyes lining up just under McCree’s eyes, gives Reyes a toothy grin.

Minutes pass by the time Reyes is able to rally himself together. For the world to come back into focus. Forcing open his chest, his fists, his jaw, against the chains of regret binding him, to formulate a plan.

He doesn’t have long depending on McCree’s mission and the extent of the updated cognitive conditioning methods used on him. The clock started counting down before McCree even stepped onto the transport. At zero Reyes will stare down the barrel of McCree’s revolver and up into empty eyes.

Just as sure as Gérard never imagined dying by his love’s hand, Reyes was sure it would come to that for himself. Eventually. For him it wouldn’t be the love of his life.

But the boy he took in.

Raised as his own.

A son.

Not of blood but of choosing.

One a father would be proud to see grow into the kind of person they themselves weren’t. Who would be better, do better in the world. Reyes had needed McCree in Blackwatch when he no longer had Jack to keep things in perspective. A sun to cast a shadow of doubt on his more questionable tactics.

Reyes resigned himself to such a fate when he joined Talon. Fated to be at the end of McCree’s barrel, sent off with the crack of the revolver.

It seemed right, to have it be an act of justice, not vengeance or mercy, delivered by the one person whose sense of justice never faltered. Who would take the shot when others wouldn’t because it was the right thing to do. His right hand man putting an end to a necessary evil.

To keep the peace.

A son righting the sins of a father.

No longer is there comfort in knowing McCree was the one carrying a bullet with Reyes’ name etched into its side. No longer can he standby for that bullet. No longer can he hold his finger off the trigger of his shotgun, refusing to take the first shot when their paths crossed.

Reyes considers the obelisk of anguish now in him, created in the span of a minutes, spearing the remnants of his heart. Created by destroyed certainties, the twisting of the threads of fate. Pressing upon him a declaration.

Reyes pulling the trigger on the man who looks like Jesse McCree, like his son, would be an act of mercy.

 

* * *

  

Reyes’ cold shoulder sends all warning flags up to full mast for McCree after he tries to lighten the mood. So he settles in, memorizes the map, tries to not look like a kicked puppy. The area they are heading to looks really familiar for a reason he can’t place. Doesn’t matter, he decides, just another one time visit in a long list of one time visits around the world. He knows he was dumb doing…

Whatever he did.

All of it is still a good deal fuzzy, also doesn’t matter as decided by the docs, because what does matter is Reyes being dead silent. His snarky comments, playful banter, and concern gone completely. McCree idly taps a metal fingertip against the holotable.

Sitting on the sidelines wasn’t his style in the least. Knowing the boss and his teammates were out there without him. Waiting to hear if they came back alive, not being able to do a damn thing about it. His hand balled into a tight fist, metal grinding on metal.

Training the new agents helped keep his mind off it all at times. The daily routine repetitive and monotonous to the point where one day bleeds into the next for weeks on end.

But he’s back now. Not exactly the welcoming he expected. Must have really shook the boss up. A twang guilt vibrates in his bones, out of sync with the buzzing of the transport’s engines. It’s alright though. McCree tugs on the bandana over his face, Boss will be right as rain after this mission. After he shows him he’s back, can do his job, and do it well.

He’d always have Reyes’ back.

Come hell or high water.


	2. Begin Assessment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo doesn't know what to do. Jesse hasn't messaged him in a long time as promised. 
> 
> Reyes has one spark of hope left that maybe Jesse is still there.
> 
> McCree doesn't understand why Boss is acting so weird, his boots are stiff, and his revolver feels off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst weekend! 
> 
> Thank you so much [ SaltCore ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltCore/pseuds/SaltCore) for all the help and putting up with my ramblings.

Hanzo cuts off his alarm as soon as it starts and keeps his back to the cold expanse of unruffled sheets on the other side of the bed, not wanting to deal with the sight on minimal sleep from the past weeks. He taps the passcode for his comm blindly, rubbing failed attempts of sleep from the night out of his eyes to narrow them into a glare, the screen display empty of notifications.

He slams it face down on the mattress. He ignores the device when he pulls himself out of bed to begin his day. He’s unnecessary loud, opening and closing drawers and cupboards forcefully. He dismisses the churning in his gut as he prepares a cup of tea, tapping his fingers on the countertop waiting for the water to boil. He barely minds the scalding heat of the tea when he takes a sip, focusing not entirely on the device on the bed across the room but the long standing difference of opinions between him and Jesse because of it. A recurring argument.

Hanzo understands Jesse’s reluctance of breaking protocol given his military-like history, to an very limited extent. Jesse had been part of an organization that clearly followed its own set of rules. A mentality Hanzo was very accustomed to.

“It ain’t safe.” Hanzo had bristled at the recycled rebuttal Jesse gave him.

“Are you saying I would put you in danger?” Hanzo had stated his own recycled response.

Jesse sighed, grabbing a bag to start packing his equipment into, tired of this point of contention between them. “Don’t start.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s protocol.”

“Unnecessary. We have the means to maintain a secured line of communication. Why not use it?”

Jesse looked to Hanzo. Hanzo took up an overly rigid posture even by his own standards, arms crossed over his chest, balled fists peeking out from under his biceps, and a determined stare boring back into Jesse. He wasn’t going to budge this time, ensuring his demeanor reflected his decision. This mission wasn’t any different than Jesse’s other solo-missions, except it was going to last weeks rather than days. It made unease curdle in his stomach.

“Just because we can, doesn’t mean we should.” Hanzo inhaled deeply, to fuel his long winded rebuttal, carefully revised from their last bout. Jesse had cut him off just as he opened his mouth to deliver it.

“But I will.” Hanzo’s mouth snapped shut at Jesse’s continued reply. “At most every couple of days. At minimum a week. _If_ you keep this between us.”

Jesse paused his packing and faced Hanzo squarely. “How’s that sound?”

Hanzo dug into his pocket and tossed a comm device onto the pile of items Jesse had stacked on the bed. One of a pair, acquired and prepared long ago. “Acceptable.”

Jesse snapped his hand around Hanzo’s outstretched wrist. Lips going up in a soft tilt he tugged Hanzo a step forward, bringing the captured hand up to brush against his grin. He placed kisses on Hanzo’s knuckles. Pressed his face into the back of Hanzo’s fingers. Hanzo followed his hand, his features shifted from determined to overly smug. Jesse had laughed seeing the change and sealed Hanzo’s victory of wrangling a promise out of him with a kiss.

An electronic chirp comes from across the room. Hanzo lets in a deep breath, the roiling in his stomach subsiding. Tea in hand, he heads back to the bed. Fishing the linked comm out of the blankets he opens the interface. Nothing. The chirping sounds again, clearly this time, from the night stand. Hanzo’s shoulders drop. He opens the Overwatch comm given to him by Winston.

_//Briefing in 20. Sudden increase in Talon activities.//_

Hanzo taps the edge of the comm as he reads the message. He goes back to the linked comm, scrolling through the messages. Counting differences in days received. Jesse had kept his word, messaging every few days always within a week as he had said. Nothing extravagant. Plenty of ‘I miss you’s, well wishes of ‘Hope you’re sleeping alright’ and ‘Have a good day, sweetheart.’ The only one of note was ‘Remind me to tell you about the goat!’

Not a single message has been received for much longer than what Hanzo is comfortable with.

At first Hanzo’s worry budded slowly. No distress signal had been sent from him. Nothing in the news had been flagged. His bounty was still open. He may merely need to lay low and not transmit any type signal for a while. Or, Hanzo rolled his eyes chiding Jesse and himself, Jesse simply forgot to charge the comm or was in an area where he couldn’t having forgotten to also charge the portable battery. It wouldn’t be the first time. They each had habits solidified from years of travelling alone to break.

But now with still no messages days upon days later. Unease swells in him, perhaps it was time he informs the others. He weighs the options using the comms in his hands to give the ideas a physical form. He would surely get a lecture about protocol. Fareeha would likely be upset she wasn’t privy to the encrypted channel to her brother but also about the break in protocol. Hanzo was fairly certain he could take her scorn. Genji will be upset as well because Hanzo never extended the courtesy to him. Hanzo worries his bottom lip at the realization he had forgotten to consider Genji. He curses himself for his selfishness, his consistent blundering when reforging his ties with his brother.

Everyone will have issue about the secrecy kept by them from the rest of the team. None would look at their actions with favorable gazes. Especially those with loved ones. Hanzo did not look favorably on having his private conversations to Jesse exposed to the others, the timestamps as evidence of his concern.

Hanzo grips the comms in his hands and shoves them each in a pocket. Maybe Jesse was right, just because they could doesn’t mean they should. The simplest of desires, watch Jesse’s back when he couldn’t be there makes him feel childish. He had become so used to their partnership. A streak of protectiveness as deep as his scowl, Jesse had called it with a chuckle. Taking in a measured breath, Hanzo rises, grabs a towel intending to shower, and assures himself that Jesse is fully capable of handling himself. It’s why he was picked for the mission. He doesn’t need to take his role as protective partner any further. Jesse will message when he is able.

He promised.

 

* * *

 

 

During the missions accompanied by McCree, Reyes let the recoil and booms of his shotguns numb his mind. Plunged head first into the chaotic static of battle. Screams and automatic fire. Metal boots pounding on concrete. Echoing cracks of a revolver. It all blended together to fill his head leaving room for two objectives.

Complete the mission.

Keep eyes on McCree.

Both were easy.

Too easy.

McCree was at his side the entire time. He filled the openings Reyes was used to having to cover on his own, not relying on others to cover his flanks. It threw him off, for years he’d adapted his tactics for unreliable company. It took a shockingly short amount of time for Reyes to revert to old habits, dusting off muscle memories he thought he had long lost after almost decades of disuse. Their targets weren’t prepared for a pair working in sync. The seamlessness of their actions made the missions a breeze.  The type of team work only years of drills, missions going to shit, and shared misery could engrain. Old tactics came into play without a second guess. McCree drew their fire, Reyes got in close. McCree caught stranglers Reyes would have spent time on tracking down. McCree was always in step with him. Not once did he have to direct or give an order. He knew the mission objectives and followed them to the letter. It was all so cleanly executed.

Reyes had forgotten how _good_ it felt to have this level of cohesion. The relief of being able to trust in another’s competence completely. He’d spent most of his life within close knit units. Jesse had been part of his team the longest.

Reyes has nothing but his fortitude to not sink into the long missed warmth of camaraderie. An absence within him being filled by having Jesse at his back again. He slams away the comfort it gives him, its attempts to soothe the ache in his chest  as it’s being pulled apart by the chains tethered to his pillar of regrets.

No, he reminds himself, he isn’t Jesse.

His most loyal. Who could very possibly turn against him at the drop of a hat.

But maybe…

Reyes looks at McCree seated across from him, waiting to arrive to their next drop point for the next mission in a series of missions. He’s fiddling with the revolver in his hands. Looking it end over end, a puzzled look etched into his face. Like he’s trying to figure out what’s off about the weapon. That it isn’t Peacekeeper.

Maybe Jesse isn’t lost completely. So much of him is the same. His mannerisms, his combat tactics, and as much as it makes Reyes’ skin crawl, even Jesse’s cheesy lines about justice. Even though none of their actions have anything to do with justice. Maybe it isn’t just surface deep. Because he catches himself. Realizing the words he’s saying don’t fit the situation. He’ll start to form a question but stops himself. Shake his head and laugh it off.

Just maybe he’s still there.

Reyes slips a hand into his jacket. He exaggerates the motion to ensure it catches McCree’s eye. From a hidden pocket he slides a faded card out.

“What’s that, Boss?” Reyes faces the card out and shows McCree.

Will he remember? How much did Talon from him? How much of him is still here?

Reyes needs to know.

Needs to know if he should have pulled the trigger on him the moment he realized what was done to him.

McCree’s brows pinch, reaching for the card.

The card isn’t from a playing deck, but a bingo set. Lotería, where the mats have pictures labelled in Spanish and numbers. This card shows a red sun in the middle of a blue sky, labelled _El Sol_ at the bottom.

It had been a big moment for Jesse, for them both. A token from his first successfully completed undercover mission.

Does he remember flagging Reyes over to come over to where he was seated in the community center that was worse for wear like everything else had been on that side of the then growing town in New Mexico? How it was largely filled with people of Hispanic descent, so blending in wouldn’t be a problem for Jesse? That per the mission parameters they always met on Lotería night, tables filled with older men and women, the pack of kids brought along running through the halls? When the mission was over, Reyes had gone to meet him one last time to pick him up for extraction?

Reyes does.

“Papá! Dad!” Jesse had called out from his seat, crowded by a group of elderly women surrounded by plates of food.

“Dios mio, Jaime, you didn’t say your father was so handsome!” The lady swatted at Jesse for his slight, the lady quickly trying to fluff her hair.

“A handsome son means a handsome father!” Another woman had chimed in causing the rest to laugh. Reyes walked over brought into a tight hug by Jesse on his arrival. They laughed together, not wanting to break whatever cover Jesse had developed, Reyes kept an arm around Jesse’s shoulders, a wide proud smile on his face. The pride had nothing to do with maintaining any semblance of cover.

“Señoritas, may I introduce my father, Emilio.” They had greeted him excitedly, having him take a seat. The next two hours were spent eating homemade food brought from five different elderly women because his son was too skinny and so was he now that they had seen him.

“Jaime says you’re a costume designer for movies, yes?” Reyes nearly choked on his mouth full of rice. He looked to Jesse who beamed at him between shovelling food in his mouth.

“I’m taking a break from movies and doing plays now. Tired of the Hollywood drama.” Reyes fell into the part Jesse assigned him.

“Broadway?!”

“Drama?”

“What kind of drama? Oh, Emilio tell us!”

“Let me find you the costume he’s making for me for my friend’s Halloween party!”

“So talented.”

“Such craftsmanship.”

“Pa is good with his hands and,” Jesse coughed lowering his voice and leaning into the center of the table, “notice the lack of ring.” Reyes takes the opportunity to swat at Jesse.

“You both should come to granddaughter’s birthday party tomorrow!”

“Will your granddaughter be there?” Jesse leaned forwards again and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Jesse watched with pure joy as his commander danced around invitations to lunches and dinners, requests for quotes for suits and gowns, declining with practiced courtesy, leaving the ladies enamored even more. The attempts to wrangle a new man into a family having been thwarted, they continued to eat and drink. Stories were swapped and Reyes made sure to come up with some embarrassing tales of Jesse, who played along groaning and hiding his face. Trying to stop Reyes from completing the story, twisting it mid sentence.

Once the two had their fill of food and merriment at each other’s expense, Jesse bemoaned an early flight and bid the group a farewell. Hugs were given out as the two left, their hands stuffed with plates of food they couldn’t refuse to leave behind.

“You be good for your father Jaime!”

“He’s always a good son!” Reyes reached out and gripped Jesse’s shoulder giving it a few pats and a shake for good measure.

Jesse was uncharacteristically quiet on the walk to the car.

“Ain’t been doted on like that for a long time. Was real nice.”

Reyes snorted, “Just wait till holiday season at the Watchpoint.”

“Yea?” Reyes gave him a false gasp of shock a dramatic hand pressed to his chest, that Jesse would ever doubted him. Jesse brightened as his commander’s antics. He happily continued to nibble at the food gifted to them. Reyes dug into his jacket pocket for the car keys, with them he pulled out a card, one used to call out the images on the bingo cards. _El Sol._ Reyes laughed bodily, showing the card the Jesse.

Jesse joined him, nearly choking on the bite of food he just took.

“Must have made a real good impression. Probably hoping you’ll come back and brighten their days.” Jesse’s high spirits returned fully, Reyes flicked the card at him. Jesse fumbled with the plates to catch the card, letting out a yelp from the effort.

“Hey now, it’s bad luck _and_ manners tossing a gift from a lady away like that.” Jesse flipped the card in his between his fingers. “Think I’ll keep it, since I’m such a good _sun_.” Jesse cackled while Reyes maneuvered the car out of the parking lot, rolling his eyes at the awful pun.

“First mission undercover a success. Got loaded with good food. Nearly married off Boss. Gotta tell the Capt’n, she’ll love it.”

Reyes studies McCree’s face, looking for any sign of recognition as he inspects the card.

McCree hands the card back. “Looks familiar. Can’t place it though. Had it for a while huh, Boss? Didn’t realize you were so sentimental.” He gives Reyes a lopsided grin.

Reyes’ edges start to drift off again to be pulled into the cargo holds vents. Whatever source the warmth he had been battling snuffs out. Dies instantly.

Cold grief creeps into place.

With a shaky hand he hopes McCree will attribute to the vibrations of the transport, he plucks the card from McCree’s hand.

He was right, this card was old and kept for sentimental reasons. But Reyes hadn’t been its first keeper.

Jesse had kept the card tucked away inside his damned hat for years. He even had gotten into a few fights over it. Reyes would roll his eyes when he spotted it dancing between Jesse’s fingers. Jesse would always threaten to marry him off if he wasn’t too careful, being such a good sun and all.

Reyes became the bearer of the card when Jesse finally couldn’t stand Reyes pushing him out. After a heated argument about the questionable blood on their hands by Reyes’ questionable orders. Reyes had dismissed him, calling him Agent McCree. Not Jesse. Not pendejo. Not ingrate. Not kid.

Jesse nodded his head accepting the weight behind the title. He removed his hat and pulled the card out. He tapped his finger on the card’s edge, staring at it like it would tell him a solution he hadn’t thought of at the last second. It didn’t.  The card snapped against Reyes’ desk when Jesse’s hand moved away. Jesse left his office without a word. By morning he was nowhere to be seen.

It didn’t matter that it was for Jesse’s own good, the sting was still sharp in Reyes’ heart. The first of many he would endure. He’d gladly pay that price so Jesse was safely out of the coming storm.

Reyes doesn’t have a reply for McCree as he tucks the card back into its place. Close to where his heart would beat. Instead he settles into the crashing waves of sorrow. The bitter taste of a harsh truth on his tongue.

Gone.

Jesse is gone.

* * *

 

 

The missions continue to go smooth as butter. McCree thoroughly pleased with his performance. Undoubtedly showing the boss he’s in tiptop form. The metal hand didn’t even slow him down. As if he’d had years of muscle memory already built up. He’d have to inquire about who built it so he could send a thank you note and maybe a bottle of whiskey. He flexes the metallic hand, yessir, mighty fine piece of work.

But even after being at the top of his game during their last missions the boss is still quiet. And his silence is really starting to eat at McCree’s nerves. It wasn’t often Boss delivered cold shoulders to people for this long. At least he thinks so. He’s sure he had been subject to it a few times, hating every single minute of it. Just bound to happen given his risky tendencies. Can’t remember any times in particular at the moment. Damn head injury. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t hate it now.

Waiting for the transport to land, to start their next mission to clear out whoever from where ever, McCree decides he ought to try and broach the subject again. Try to release the pent up rage he’s sure Boss has been bottling up before he implodes or worse, one of them makes a mistake during their mission. He’d rather take an ass chewing than this continued silence.

“Bos-Reyes,” McCree steps to Reyes’ side, lighting a cigar, bracing himself as he pokes the bear right in the eye, “I know it musta been rough. I’m sorry I put you through all that. Worrying you and the rest of the team. I...I really am. You got every reason to be spitting mad. I know I failed you, broke your confidence in me. I know and I’ll earn it back. I swear. Just wanted to clear the air.”

Reyes sighs, shoves him to the side. “Get going pendejo, we have a job to do.”

Ain’t much but he’ll take it.

They advance together like a well oiled machine. Covering each other as the other moves ahead. Just like many previous missions they’d done together.

However, one thing keeps scratching at the back of McCree’s mind. A tingle runs down the back of his neck and across a shoulder, making him aware something is missing. He tried not to be obvious about it during over the last couple of missions, scanning the rooftops of the surrounding buildings. The rafters in the warehouse. Every vantage point they came across. All were empty and it wasn’t right. Someone should have been there. Were they supposed to have someone else on this mission of striking fear into hearts and minds? He does a quick mental run down of the briefing given to him. Objectives clearly listed. Personnel limited to himself, Reyes, and the pilots.

McCree unholsters his revolver to ground him, waiting for the cue from Reyes to move forward. He’s just out of practice. Been on the bench too long. He tips his hat back and gives the area one more look. Something just doesn't sit right. Like how his boots are stiff as hell for some reason. And his revolver feels different in his hands.

“What is it?” McCree winces, great now he’s worrying Reyes.

“Nothin’. All’s clear.” Reyes leans towards him the barest of inches. Jesse gives a sigh. No use in trying to hide it now Reyes has his teeth in it.

“Just feeling is all, like I'm missing my guardian angel.”

An angel with piercing amber eyes, always followed by a streak of gold, heralded by roars.

 


	3. Fault Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conditioning is cracking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thanks [Salt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltCore) for all the help.
> 
> enjoy

Hanzo lets his feet take him to the conference room. He’s still preoccupied with his decision or lack of decision to inform the others about Jesse not messaging him for so long. It wouldn’t be long until Jesse’s official check in date. Hanzo nods to himself. Yes, that would be best, just wait for when Jesse was supposed to check in.

In the conference room Winston has nearly everyone on base gathered. Hanzo stands leaning against the wall behind Genji, who’s teetering on the back legs of the chair. He tries to work out a way to extend the gesture of a secured direct line to his brother, only half listening to the brief.

Pockets of freedom fighters who opposed the government headed by a known dictator with ties to Talon are being wiped out.

They are asking for aid from Overwatch using old channels Athena monitored. The signal was sent by a former Overwatch agent. A distress signal made in desperation. They had been sending messages with evidence of the aftermath from Talon’s slaughtering of their people. They haven’t been able to say who exactly Talon has sent but guessing by the blasts in the bodies, those who’ve faced Reaper before know with certainty who is doing this. There is an anomaly formed from the others killed at the scenes, killed with a single shot. At most three.

Reaper has a new associate.

There are only a few safe houses and cache locations that the freedom fighters have left. They are expecting attacks on them soon and refuse to abandon their claims.

The plan is to—

A ping interrupts.

_‘Winston, the Talon operatives were caught on one of their security cameras from the most recent assault. I just received the footage.  Shall I play it?’_

“Yes Athena, go right ahead.”

The footage starts in the last minutes of the attack. Fighters with assault rifles are shooting at something off screen towards the top. They are using crates as cover in a warehouse perhaps or an underground bunker. At the bottom of the frame a black hooded figure appears, firing shotguns at the fighters’ backs. They go down easily. Two try to flee off to the left. They don’t get the chance. Reaper doesn’t even turn to follow. Four shots echo out and the fighters crumple clutching their knees.

Hanzo hears it over the screams of pain from the fleeing fighters. The others in the room hear it as well. The rhythmic jingle of metal spurs of a slow gait he knows by heart. Another man in black appears from the top of the frame.

_‘Need them, Boss?’_ A boot grinds into the wound of one of the injured. They groan and try to muffle a scream of pain.

_‘No.’_ Reaper sweeps past.

_‘Bad luck fellas.’_ Jesse McCree revealed his face, pulling down the bandana covering it then fires a shot into each of the wounded fighters’ skulls. The jingle of his spurs echoing as he walks away, following Reaper off screen.

The video ends.

Hanzo steps to the table, planting his palms flat on the surface, ignores Genji canting his head to peer up at him. “Athena, again.”

_‘Of course. Conducting analysis. Tampering....Negative. Fabrication….Negative.’_

Around the room, one by one, faces fall with each result Athena presents.

_‘Facial Recognition…Positive. Voice Recognition...Positive. Biometrics...Positive.’_

Except for Hanzo.

“Again.”

_‘Probability 98.9% Positive Match.’_

“Again.”

Hanzo’s eyes sear into the screen. Over the familiar form of Jesse. Over his walk and the digging of his heel into a wound. Over his shoulders shrugging and rise of his revolver. His eyes when he fires.

“It’s him.”

“It is not.” Hanzo’s hold on his calm neutrality starts to slip.

“Athena’s analysis...it’s him.” Winston bows his head taking a breath to steady himself.

“It is not him.” Each word crisp and clear.

“Hanzo….” Genji murmurs gently.

“How could he do this?” Hana’s anger poorly covers her hurt.  
  
“He was Reyes’ right hand. Not the first time he’s cut and run.” Seventy-six doesn’t flinch at the glares from the Amaris and Shimadas in the room.

“Was it all a lie? Was he Talon this whole time?”

Hanzo forces out the air he’d been holding on to, his lips curling into disgust. Anger begins to swirl within him. How _dare_ they be short sighted. So quick to doubt Jesse and his loyalties. To believe the worst of their own with only one single source of information.

“Don’t be an idiot, he would never.” Fareeha snaps harshly, saving them from Hanzo’s own lashing. Fareeha recoils from the sharpness of her own response. She apologizes under her breath. Hanzo narrows his eyes, he would not have apologized.

“They are forcing him then? Coercion?” More of a plea than a question comes from Reinhardt.

“IT IS NOT HIM.” The words boom like thunder, the crack of a chair crashing against the far wall of the conference a lightning strike. Hanzo, all no longer again to contain his indignation, rounds on them a snarl set in place on his face.

“Coerced or not, Jesse would not look down and mock those he’s about to kill. He would not grind his heel into a wounded person. He would not disable a person in the most painful way. He _would not_. Is your loyalty as shallow as you proclaim his to be?” He throws his hand out pointing at the paused video of a man. “That is not him. He wouldn’t have joined them. ”

“It’s him but it isn’t him. Not truly. It’s like...” Ana trails off brows pinched, eyes closing in pain.

_It’s him but it isn’t him._ The words echo like a gong.

Lena whispers the name many of them can’t say. “Lacroix.”

_It’s her but it ain’t her._ Jesse’s words whisper to Hanzo. Words from when Jesse told him the woeful tale of Amelie and Gerard Lacroix. A nightmare haunting the agents for decades. Evidence for how far Talon was willing to go. What horrors they were capable of. Any lingering doubts Hanzo had about his resistance to join them eradicated.

“He isn't, well,” Lucio waves his hand at the screen, “blue.”

“Neither was she when we got her back. After she was kidnapped.” Fareeha spoke softly, she moved her arm to grip the back of the chair Ana sat in next to her. A rare gesture from her, Hanzo notices, seeking comfort from another.

Hanzo doesn't allow himself any sort of comfort. Not in false hopes or platitudes. He casts them from his thoughts as leaves  caught in a gust of wind. Likewise he doesn't allow himself to think on the unverified efforts of Talon’s manipulations. He rips away tendrils of thoughts rooted in fear questioning how much of Jesse was altered, what remains or not, because Hanzo's selfish heart knows which it would prefer.

“Why not send him back? Why keep him?” Satya implores creating an opening for Hanzo to vent the turbulent currents of fury and fear in his chest.

“Perhaps they presumed a degree of intelligence and wisdom of not falling for the same mistake twice. It appears their precautions are unfounded as the leadership of this organization has once again proven themselves as fools. Unable to protect their own people. Or even keep track of their own agents!”  

“You think this is easy? You think you could do better? I doubt it.” Seventy-six is on his feet leaning over the table towards Hanzo. “So how about you watch your damn mouth Shimada.”

“Or what? Don’t think Overwatch’s standing policy of leaving people behind scares me.” Hanzo stands his ground eyes narrowed. “Some of us are already well acquainted with being abandoned by our own. We know how to survive when thrown to the wolves. And watch for those who would throw us.”

“I wouldn’t imagine it would since your way of handling your people is to run a sword--”

“Enough!” Ana stands so quickly her chair topples over.

“No one is getting left behind,” Winston’s hand falls heavily on Seventy-six’s shoulder keeping him in place, “that’s not going to happen.” The leather gloves creak with tension from Seventy-six’s fists tightening into balls.

“No, it isn’t.” Hanzo refuses to spare any of them a glance, striding swiftly out of the conference room with a singular purpose.

“Hanzo! Hanzo, stop.” Genji catches his arm at the door to leading to the cliffside outside. “You can’t go alone. You will need backup.”

“Like Jesse had?” Hanzo snarls teeth bared.

“I am on your side, Hanzo. On Jesse’s.”

“I leave in four hours.” Genji nods his head, a trail of green streaking back into the conference room.

Four paces into the fresh sea air and sunlight, the raging storm of fury in him stills. Hanzo feels it around him still, as it pulls the air from his lungs and rumbles in his bones. But in this eye of the storm, in the silence of his rage, his knees buckle. In this space without his wrath to sustain him to keep the fear and regret at bay, he gulps down air to fill the void his chest has become. White knuckles wrap around the railing for the outside stairs, his strength to stand falters. Pressed against the railing he can’t take the silence. He roars across the open cliffside, calls for the storm to return.

It does not.

Instead he must weather this fleeting calm, withstand the worry and doubt drifting down in the absence of his flurry of emotions to sweep them away.

 

* * *

 

 

McCree is more out of practice than he thought. He can still do everything he means to but goddamn if he ain’t a touch more sore than he should be. Between that, his knees popping, and thinking he’s forgotten something, he’s feeling like a 40 year old man.

It’s made him a bit agitated and the quality of food isn’t helping.

“Reyes you gotta get Jackie Frank to approve a bigger budget for some quality chow. This is trash.” McCree complains mostly because if no one is bitchin’ then something’s wrong and McCree is tired of feeling like something is wrong. Plus he wants to see if he can get a rise out of the old man. He doesn’t. Reyes’ head doesn’t snap to him as he chews some brick of a nutrient bar or even tilt in his direction.

“I’m sure you’ve had worse.” Reyes says the words flat and humorless, he gets up and walks to the flight station. McCree tosses last of the bar on the table. The tension rolling off Reyes had eased over the last few missions. Days of flying to target location after target location with no one else to talk to, McCree wore him down. But every so often, he’ll say something and for whatever reason it sets Reyes on edge again.

There are two more targets to hit. Another warehouse. Another reclaimed facility out in the middle of some industrial district. It couldn’t be the mission that’s bothering Reyes so much. McCree keeps his eyes on Reyes, who drifts around the cargo hold checking equipment and preparing for the next mission. Something is eating at him and it’s starting to worry McCree. Could be trouble with Jackie Frank. Or the higher ups at the UN. Could be a number of things. Things he would usually confide to McCree. Being left in the dark was never a position McCree enjoyed.

“You wanna tell me what’s really going on here Boss? Because you’re on edge like this is a hostage rescue and not taking out the trash.” McCree kicks a leg out, digging his heel into the metal deck panels to block Reyes from passing. Reyes tilts his head down to look at McCree’s boot.

“How did you lose your arm?”

“What does that have to do with anything? Boss, if you got something to say, say it.”

“How!” McCree doesn’t have answer. He can’t remember. There’s only static and pain. Bright lights and buzzing in his ears. Screaming. He quickly writes it all off as unimportant. Because it wasn’t. The how and why. The medical staff even said so. The only thing that matters was Reyes knowing he was fit. Knowing he was still his right hand man. The here and now.

“It doesn’t matter, the docs cleared me. I’m fit for duty, Boss. I’ve—”  

Reyes crosses over McCree’s boot. McCree’s lips press into a thin line, his reasoning left unspoken.

McCree sighs. Twice in one trip. Stellar work staying on Boss’s shit list. He closes his eyes to drag a hand down his face. He jerks back when unexpected cool metal touch his brow. He curls and unfurls his metal fingers. Strange how often he forgets he has this. Sure he’s always been quick to adjust but he figured he shouldn’t be as comfortable with this heavy weight on his left. He isn’t off balance or sore. One of the many things on a growing list of ‘just ain’t right’.

But thinking about it hurts his head. A mindless anger boils up and the easiest and fastest way to deal with the frustration is to wave the thoughts away. He does so without pondering the why of it, he has to focus. A job needs to be done.

McCree should have known their targets would have smartened up. Well not fully, as they’ve decided to make quite the stand against them instead of packing up and getting the hell out of there. Any bones to pick he has with Reyes are pushed to the side to be dealt with later.

The situation turns tricky for them faster than they expected. While the previous locations weren’t heavily guarded this one had some effort put into it. McCree ends up pinned away from Reyes, unable to provide cover or back up.

“Boss, I don’t have eyes on you.” McCree peeks out from behind his cover scanning the area, cursing at the bullets zipping past. He moves ahead ducking to points of cover. He needs to make it to Reyes. He freezes when the air around him starts to buzz. A charge lifting the hair on the back of his neck. Then he hears Reyes over the comm. He’s gasping for air, growling through his teeth between the booms of this shotguns. After a sharp inhale McCree hears only pained guttural sounds and the clatter of shoguns hitting the deck.

Breaking cover, McCree fires on anything that moves, dashing around the corner of a stack of crates. His heart stops. Reyes is on the ground. Electricity arcing and snapping over his body, he’s struggling to get to his feet, one of his shotguns just out of reach.

McCree doesn’t have time to question how Reyes’s body is falling apart at the edges. Why or how wisps of black smoke flow off his form, pooling around him. Why the face of one of the mercenaries causes a spark of familiarity. How it’s wrong to see them in ragged browns and misshapen armor when they should be in crisp blues and whites. Their face is tired and worn, it shouldn’t be. It should be bright and fresh. He doesn’t stall when they see his face and utter his name their eyes wide in shock and disbelief.

The world drains of color before he can question anything. A singular purpose drives time to slow, protect Reyes. Line up the shots. Keep _Reaper_ alive. Neutralize the targets. The mission must be completed. The freedom fighters must be wiped out. Threat to Talon associates. Ensure Reaper’s survival. Top priority directive.

Jesse stalls for a fraction of a second.

A part of him knows he shouldn’t pull the trigger because this isn’t right, it’s murder. He shouldn’t because he knows only one of the faces ahead of him is his enemy. The one masked with a white skull. He shouldn’t be alone. He should have a team with him. He should have Fareeha and Genji covering his flanks. He should have Hanzo up in a sniper’s nest watching his back. Where are they? Where’s Hanzo?

He shouldn’t be here.

With a revolver that isn’t his, pointed at a face he’d seen in the halls and at poker games at various watchpoints years ago.

He shouldn’t pull the trigger.

He shouldn’t.

But he does.

The world’s colors don’t return.

It all goes black.

 

* * *

 

Reyes stands alone, bodies litter the ground around him. His shoulders and chest rise with carefully measured breathes. His shotguns, though empty, remain tightly in his grip. A final wave of freedom fighters dealt with in a blossom of death but there’s one more body on the ground than there should be. He doesn’t plan to leave it here with the rest. He sets his shoguns down to dissolve, freeing his hands to place the wide brimmed hat onto the body’s chest before lifting it. On the walk back to the transport his shoulders loosen, the tightness in his chest decreases despite carrying the limp form in his arms. It takes him a minute to realize he’s feeling relief. Relief allows him to sink full bodied in the transport seat next to the table he placed Jesse on. He removes his jacket and mask, his gloves and vambraces and lets the back of his head fall back against the cool metal of the transport airframe.

The pilots are busy navigating unauthorized airspace to pay him any mind.

He missed when Jesse used what he affectionately calls Deadeye. By the time he was getting to his feet Jesse on was on his knees bent over holding his head, babbling.

“What did I do?” The words falling out of him frantically. Jesse repeated them again and again. A mantra of near madness.

It had been such a long time since Reyes felt this type of helplessness. Watching a suffering that couldn’t be eased. He knelt next to Jesse throwing an arm over his shoulder, whispering words of comfort.

“Easy, cowboy. It’s alright. I got you.” A calm fell over Reyes. He knew there was only one thing to do. He’s done it before. More times than he cared to count. When someone was slowly bleeding out in his arms with no help on the way. When someone was trapped and the enemy was hot on their heels. When their last request was for someone to end their suffering. Death couldn’t be any worse.

He owes Jesse that, one final act of mercy. He reached for the revolver on the ground next to them.

It’s the least he could do.

“Shh,” Reyes murmured as he pivoted to encase Jesse in a one armed embrace, “it’s okay, it’ll be over soon.”

Reyes tries to speak over the click of the hammer being locked back more so for himself than Jesse, pressing the barrel in close, “I’m proud of you Jessito. I—I’m sorry, mijo.”

Jesse lifts his head, pushing away from Reyes, his eyes pinched with confusion, “Gabe? You’re...you’re dead. How are you…here...where the hell am I?”

The words are enough to paralyze Reyes. Enough of a stall for the final wave of the freedom fighters to begin to surround them. Enough of a glimpse of Jesse, the real Jesse, for Reyes to throw the revolver aside and lay waste to those around them.

Jesse is passed out on the ground when he’s done.

Now Jesse’s stretched out on the table in the cargo hold of a transport flying almost at the speed of sound, the screen above his head shows his vitals, steady and holding.

A vein of hope cracks the pillar of regrets within Reyes. He can fix this. Jesse is still there.

He can save him. He just has to figure out how. A message comes through from Sombra, a reply to a strongly worded message he sent her a day ago. She dumps all the information she could get on what Vishkar is up to with cognitive reconditioning. He begins to read through the attachments sent to him.                                                                              

“Christ what happened,” Jesse groans breaking his concentration on the reports causing his blood to boil, “someone get the jump on me?”

Reyes waits to say the words until Jesse looks at him. Without his mask. With his face… barely what it used to be. Reyes looks back to the reports, McCree doesn’t even bat an eye.

“Your thick skull can’t protect you forever.” Since it’s easier to lie, Reyes does. Tells McCree someone snuck up on him while he cleared the room with Deadeye.

McCree shrugs and lets the pained grimace fall into a lopsided grin.

“Why we make such a good team, Boss. We look out for each other.” He gets to his feet a little wobbly, arches his back stretching. “How much time I got to get squared away before the next drop?”

Reyes needs to talk to Sombra, have a few words with Akande as well about Vishkar’s operations. To suss out their motives for handing him McCree like this. He plans to make them regret their poor attempt to gain favor with him.“We’re heading back to base.”

Reyes forgot how bullheaded McCree can be when he sets his mind to it. He argues with him about his possible head injuries and how it could put the mission in jeopardy. McCree adamantly makes a case that he is fine and can do the last mission. Then tries to pin the whole incident on Reyes over extending to where McCree couldn’t get to him. The urge to rip into McCree for all the stupid stunts he pulled over the years slams out of Reyes before he can even think to stop it. It’s an old familiar habit, delivering ass chewings to some hot shot who thinks they’re a fucking god. Reyes never missed an opportunity to knock one of his own down a peg. McCree is smiling like the reckless ass he is the entire time, knowing full well he finally got Reyes back on familiar grounds.

Another message from Sombra halts Reyes as he takes a deep breath to continue to knock McCree off his high horse. Overwatch is sending a team to the next targeted location but won’t arrive for another day.

“Stow it McCree. We are having one down day to make sure you didn’t knock what you have left in that skull of yours loose. Then we’ll hit that last target. End of discussion.” McCree gives him a half ass salute and starts to get ready. He’ll take it as a win and Reyes is okay with letting him have it. If it means he can get him to those who can set him right.

 

-

 

The safehouse entrance is a run down shack built into the side a of cliff in a mountain range. The transport is guided into the underground hangar. The pilots opt to stay in their aircraft while he and McCree exit into the hangar. The hangar is about all there is to the safehouse. The only door aside from the ones to the surface is to the bathroom. Only other comforts other than running water and electricity is a table stands with a few chairs and a few cots for sleeping in the shadow of a set of crates. They settle in an easy silence. They clean their gear, McCree makes a few jokes. Reyes slips carefully back into mannerisms of another life. The warmth he tried so diligently to suppress seeps out and fills him with nostalgia as he and McCree shoot the shit. They bitch about gear and food. They argue over which weapon is better. They made good natured jabs at each other until it’s finally time to hit the rack.

Reyes looks McCree over before allowing him to rest, who grumbles about not having slipped his biscuit. Reyes ignores him, checks his pupils and makes him walk a straight line.

“Happy now?”

“Never. Get some shut eye.” McCree scoffs and heads to the cots.

Reyes works the rest of his plan out to handing over McCree to Overwatch. It’ll have to be carefully constructed that Overwatch recovered McCree on their own. Next he’d have to figure out a way to leak the information about the process he was subjected to by Vishkar. Without it they might do more damage.

“If you wake him up, we’re going to have words.” Reyes voices clearly into the open air of the hangar.

Sombra materializes at the other end of the table. “You’re no fun Gabe.” Her usual mischievous tone absent.

“Don’t call me that. What are you doing here?”

“I had to go to the facility to get that information. I saw what they do. Do you think… it can be reversed?” She pulls up her purple interface, lazily drawing

“Possibly. Worried about yourself?” Sombra gives a small smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Give me some credit Gabe. It’s fucked up. No one deserves that.” Her features soften, her hand lazily draws circles in the air her purple interface allowing the shapes to linger in a familiar cluster.

“Are you offering to help?” Reyes decides not to pry just now.

“I’m here, no?” Thrashing and a shout pull their attention to the cots. Reyes ghosts over instantly. McCree’s eyes are screwed shut. He tosses and kicks in his sleep. Reyes kneels next to him. He speaks calmly, trying to wake him. But his fit worsens. His arms flail at phantoms. Reyes catches his wrist so he doesn’t break it against the metal of the cot or the wall.

“No. No. No. Han--!” McCree jackknifes up nearly headbutting Reyes. He looks around wildly, relaxing when Reyes comes into view.

“Boss?” He shakes his head giving a sigh. “Had a weird dream. Was at your gravestone. Felt so real…” McCree laughs off the nightmare, pushing Reyes away. He’s shaking and pale. Sweat beading on his forehead. He tries to hide it. Reyes doesn’t miss it at all.

“Just a nightmare. I’m fine.” McCree mutters, he was always a great liar except when it came to Reyes.

Reyes returned to the table finding a hard shelled container left by Sombra. He opens it gingerly. Inside a revolver in its holster with a gunbelt wrapped around it rests atop a folded red cloth. Beneath the cloth is a wide brimmed hat, upside down, nestled between a pair of boots. In the hat is a comm device. Reyes powers it on, reads the first message. It goes into his pocket before he snaps the lid of the container closed and carries it to the aircraft.

He’ll take that as a yes.  

 

-

 

They are walking into a trap and Reyes intends to spring it. McCree is suspicious of the lack of resistance. The emptiness of the area making him fidget just a bit.

“Think they wised up and cleared out?” McCree’s eyes trace the rooftops around them. Reyes leads the way, caution thrown to the wind wondering which step will—

A projectile lands between them and explodes sending a concussive blast out pushing them away from each other.

“Fall back! Mission abort.” They bolt. Reyes takes the high ground. None of Overwatch goes after him. They focus on McCree. He drops down to intercept Genji. It has to look real. Reyes plays his part.

“You will pay for what you’ve done to him!” Genji roars and streaks past.

The accusation snaps a chord of anger in him. He grinds his teeth as he charges. Genji deflects his shots. Tossing his spent shotguns he side steps Genji’s blade.

“For what I’ve done?” Reyes throws his head back and roars with manic laughter. “What has Overwatch done for him?” He growls out firing again.

Genji is disabled after two shots, an artificial knee and ankle destroyed. But it doesn’t stop him from lunging onto Reyes, trying to hamper his escape, presuming he will go assist McCree in escaping.

He leans in close to Genji’s masked face. “Where were you when he was captured? Tortured. Wiped of his memories.”

“Haven’t you learned, Shimada,” Reyes dissipates into smoke leaving Genji on the ground the rest the team finally catching up, “Overwatch only does one thing, fail. Fail its mission and its own people.”

Reyes scales up a building and races across rooftops to McCree’s location. Above Fareeha is in her Raptora suit pursuing. Not far behind her is another figure Reyes recognizes but never would have expected to be on the heels of McCree when his brother is injured blocks away. Hanzo Shimada leaps and runs after Fareeha. After McCree. The name McCree called out in his sleep finally makes sense, the message on the comm confirming his suspicions.

A crack of a shot is followed by Fareeha plummeting into an alley. The sound of her rocket rattles the roof titles.

Reyes pushes himself to reach Hanzo before he jumps to help. He fires his shotguns, the sound causing Hanzo to duck for cover.

“You will not take him from me!” Hanzo swings around firing an arrow at him. It scatters around him, cutting him. Reyes drops into a puddle and closes in. His form coalesces as he tackles Hanzo from behind. Neutralizing him would be easier if Reyes wasn’t concerned with causing him serious harm. He finally contains Hanzo, a forearm pressing against his throat, arm twisted behind his back, his left wrist poised to break at Reyes’ whim.

A thought occurs to him. A back up plan.

“Join Talon and he’s yours.” He whispers.

Hanzo goes motionless grinding out, “You would barter him like a thing—”  

“Jesse wait! Wait! It’s me! It’s Fareeha!” They can see her shouting below, she has her hand gripping McCree’s coat. He does a double take, she has time to lift her helmet’s visor revealing her face to him.

“You’re jacked up, Jesse. Talon did something to you. Reaper did something to you.” She pulls herself closer, her grip firmer.

“I’ll give it to you, you’re mighty creative. But I don’t have time to play your game.” McCree takes a step back, free hand going to his hip for a flashbang.

“Damnit. Listen to me! _Please_.” Fareeha tries with all her might to look non-threatening. “You’re not yourself. It’s like what happened to Lacroix. You need to come with me.”

He starts to pull away from her grasping hands. Panic and anger seep into her words. “Please. You’re killing innocent people, Jesse! You’re killing them in cold bloo—”

“You shut your goddamn mouth!” McCree yells as he uses the butt of his revolver to slam into the side of Fareeha’s helmet. His metal hand locks around her throat in a vice. He walks forward driving her back. A wince pulls itself out of Reyes not from the echo of the hit to her head or her suit’s boosters ramming into the wall but the malice lacing McCree’s words.

Reyes knows Fareeha has never been spoken to by Jesse like this. Never has he ever laid a hand on her. Never has he ever looked at her with eyes set to kill. Hanzo must know as well, his shoulders slump in Reyes’ grasp and he mutters words of disbelief.

“Now you listen here, there ain’t nothing wrong with me. I’m trying to be reasonable, lettin’ you walk away from this. Because I sure as hell ain’t going anywhere with you.” McCree lets his words sink in before letting her go putting a few paces between them. He adjusts his hat and coat. “At least not alive.”

Fareeha remains against the wall. Reyes watches the agonizing heartbreak crumple her to the ground. Her shoulders shake, her knees brought up to chest for her face to hide in. Reyes pulls gaze to McCree, he can’t watch her sorrow.

He waits until McCree is out of sight. Plan B it is. He shoves Hanzo forward then kicks him square in the back to send him stumbling to catch himself. Reyes scoops up his bow and tosses it in the opposite direction off the edge of the building as Hanzo turns to face him, fists raised face scored with pure rage.

“I’ll be in touch.” He holds up the comm Sombra retrieved with McCree’s other personal items. Hanzo’s wide eyes follow him to the edge of the roof, Reyes steps off and plummets. He passes Fareeha long enough to hear her muffled cries.

Reyes solidifies far enough away to watch McCree collect himself from just puking his guts out by evidence of the sick on the cement in front of him. He swipes a hand over his forehead, over a scar he got years ago with Fareeha. He rubs over the faded indent, brows drawn together. Was he remembering the time he snuck her off base to see her first rock concert? Was that just a few years ago to him rather than decades?

Everyone was losing their minds when they came back, Fareeha’s shirt sleeve ripped off and tied around Jesse’s head. He dove to catch the drum sticks tossed into the crowd. He got them but he also cracked his head open in a fight to keep them from others in the crowd. Battle won, he convinced Fareeha to stay until the end of the set, the cut wasn’t that bad. It was a lie. A bit of his temporal bone was gouged. Reyes had sat back and let Jesse get lectured by the medical staff and then by Ana. The smile on his face told Reyes how much Jesse thought it was worth taking the lashing when Fareeha handed Jesse one of the drumsticks before she was escorted back to her mother’s suite, it was the first time Fareeha called him her brother.

“Let’s go.” McCree nods falling in step with Reyes as he rounds the corner.  McCree doesn’t ask about the failed mission. Those that attacked them. Does he already know who they are?

“We have one last job before heading back to base.” Reyes stares at McCree who is lost in his own thoughts as they step onto the transport.

“Yea?” McCree’s delayed response is shakey. He coughs trying to cover it. To expel whatever thoughts preoccupied him.

“Potential recruitment.”


	4. Reconditioning Required

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything falls to pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY! I got stuck on a few parts in this chapter but its over and done with and now I can get to why this entire story started. 
> 
> Thank you [ SaltCore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltCore/pseuds/SaltCore) for reading it over and checking that the sad levels were good ;)

McCree’s knee keeps bouncing. He tries again and again to stop it but again and again it starts up. Heel of his boot tapping against the deck of the transport. He wants to pace. He wants a smoke. His palm is sweaty. He keeps rubbing it against his thigh. He wants to rip apart the loop running in his head. Of the woman’s face crumbling, her brows tilting in painful grief, the stuttering exhale parting her lips as they tremble, her voice pitchy from pleading, and how it all triggers an unease that settles heavily in his gut. Unease bordering on guilt. Guilt for doing something wrong. No, it's more than wrong. Wrong wouldn’t have him like this. Wrong wouldn’t bring in this nausea from his stomach roiling with regret and shame. He’s done wrong before without batting an eye and slept like a rock. Wrong wouldn’t have him seeing that woman’s face again and again. A tingling sensation crawling over his shoulders. Her eyes wide with the impossibly purest form of sorrow.

He can’t remember ever seeing a heart break in front of him, at his feet, by his own hand.

It’s wrong.

Her grief shouldn’t matter.

All of it is wrong.

She shouldn’t matter to him but his chest hurts.

He’s the one that isn’t right, just like she had said yet not in the manner she intended.

He shouldn’t be this rattled. He shouldn’t be darting his eyes to the flight station to make sure Reyes is still up there while he tries to get a handle on the replay in his head, the shaking of his hand, bouncing of his knee.

He’s all wrong.

He doesn’t have _anything_ to do with her. But he can’t stop hearing her words pleading with him.

He should be fucking livid someone’s claiming to be Fareeha, whose actually hemispheres away starting her first semester of college this year. Who doesn’t have a tattoo on her eye like her mother’s. Instead he’s struck with a spear of fear he can’t shake. He keeps reminding himself, over and over, Fareeha is far away, safe. By all rights, she deserved the slam he gave her. The woman wasn’t his sister.

He says it over and over in his head.

_She wasn’t his sister. She wasn’t his sister. She wasn’t his sister. She wasn’t his sister. She wasn’t..._

...yet it feels like he just ripped Fareeha’s heart out.

_No. No. No._

He digs the heel of his palm into the space between his brows. His heart thumps loudly against his chest.

She just _looked_ familiar, like the Captain. _Get it fucking together, McCree._ It was a _play_ to make him spare her. It fucking worked. Maybe he should give Captain a call. Have her check on Fareeha. No, he can’t, their river city. He can’t send her a message until they get back to base and with this detour it’ll be at least another day.

God damn it, what the fuck is happening, are his brains scrambled that badly? McCree finally rises and starts to pace he can’t contain the energy buzzing under his skin.

It’s all wrong.

Why the hell isn’t Reyes more worried about this? That terrorists are starting to dress up to look like their own people. Reyes didn’t say a thing. How did this not raise any red flags for him? How is none of this-- a headache is growing deep and sharp behind his right eye. He presses his palm against it, a poor attempt to stymie its rapid progression.

He’ll get… he sees a face, blonde hair in a ponytail, a gentle smile but can’t remember her name. Doc...Z? Either way he’ll get the good doc to check him over. He’s never been able to trust other docs that's a certainty. She’ll run him through a battery of tests and clear him, he knows she’ll be overly thorough. But if something is wrong she’ll have to report it. If the whack to the head rattled something loose Reyes will bench him again. And if it's really bad… he might be medically discharged.

He’s brought up short at the thought. A wave of dread threatens to overtake him.

 _Pull your shit together, McCree._ He scrubs his face, chastising himself again. He tries to drown out the nerves with a simple mantra.

 _Focus._ _Focus on the present._

That’s what they told him, the docs. They warned him he might get befuddled from his brains sloshing around, not yet set in his skull. They told him to just sit and focus on the present. To block everything else out. Let the chaos in his mind dissipate. Focus would bring order. Focus and there would be order. McCree forces a steady breath out, then in. Just focus. Focus.

_You’re thinking too much, habibi. Just focus on the target._

_Jesse, listen to me. I’m your commander, I am getting you out of there. Just focus on my voice._

Just focus.

The world isn’t as hectic, his body isn’t as panicked when he opens his eyes. Like a plug was pulled and drained it all out nerves eating at him. A calm clarity falls on him and he blinks, he has a mission to focus on. Focus on the mission, everything else with meaningless. Focus on the mission.

He swipes up the tablet on the table and opens the file Reyes pointed out to him. A dossier opens in his hands showing detailed information listed below a photo of a man. Assassin. Expertise in archery, stealth, hand to hand combat. Infiltration. The words potential asset blink on his screen. The corner of McCree’s mouth tick up a notch, Reyes is still picking up strays. As he looks at the harsh thin line the man’s lips form and dark hair buzzed on the sides he realizes something.

Somehow he knows this man.

An undercover op? A one night stand at some seedy bar?  It doesn’t make a lick of sense that a dull ache would form in his chest to slot into where the feeling of wrong had been filling him. A hint of excitement and anticipation seeping in surprises him, like how the hair on his arms would stand on end when he was too close high volts, ready to jolt through him. Such an odd reaction to a man he doesn’t remember ever seeing. Ever hearing his name. He many have settled his brain but he still can’t recall the face staring daggers at him from the screen. But his name is easy to say, like he’s said it a million times. It rolls over his tongue like something sweet and heavenly.

Maybe he just needs to get laid?

McCree finishes going through the dossier. He goes through the plan to recruit the man. What he might want out of the deal. He thinks of ways to handle various situations. He’s throwing on his belt as the transport starts to descend. He prods again that the notion hanging around the back of his head. Not enough to aggravate a headache that’s just there on the fringes waiting to blossom if he bring his full attention to the puzzle.

He’s just curious is all.

Why Hanzo Shimada looks so damned familiar.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo eyes the area around the rooftop. It isn’t a great spot for an ambush. He has plenty of escape routes and could easily get lost in the city from any pursuing forces. A type of place he would have selected for a meeting to be in his favor. It still feels like a trap and Jesse is the bait. No one knows he is here. He couldn’t risk it. Slipping out when the others were occupied at the safe house. Genji will find him in under 12 hours.

The message on the comm link he paired with Jesse’s continues to taunt. Along with Reaper’s words.

_Join Talon and he’s yours._

The storm raging within him swells. The audacity to treat Jesse like a thing.

The jingle of spurs tightens his chest, quelling instantly the storm gathering strength within him.

“Howdy.” Jesse comes into view and Hanzo’s heart stops. The impulse to run at him, to ram his body against the man he sees is so strong he even takes a step forward. He checks himself just barely in time and it's like stabbing himself in the gut.

Jesse spells out a deal, Hanzo doesn’t listen to any of the words, only the sound of his voice. It’s heavy with his accent, the vowels drawn out a bit more, a drawl reserved once they are at least half a bottle in. Hanzo stares. Jesse looks so much the same and yet so vastly different. He moves when he talks, hands gesturing, shoulders rolling, head dipping but it’s excessive. The motions are too loud. Jesse’s smile is too sweet, the twinkle in his eye lacking a familiar good nature. Just a sly and smooth but there was an edge to him. A hint of a threat underneath it all, feinting trustworthiness. He’s also shrouded in so much black. Twisted into a semblance of himself that is still so true to him, it’s another stab in Hanzo’s gut.

Jesse would hate it.

 _Just ain’t my color anymore, hon. Not for a long time._ Was his response when Hanzo suggested a more tactically appropriate color scheme.

Hanzo’s lips curl in anger, a snarl forms, he’s going to kill them all for what they’ve done.

“Look fella, I’m just the messenger. If you don’t like the deal ain’t any skin off my ass if you decline it.” Jesse misinterprets Hanzo’s face souring. Hanzo ignores his play of nonchalant demeanor.

“Name’s McCree by the way.” He tips his hat just like the first time he introduced himself when Hanzo arrived at the watchpoint. And again whenever he greeted him in passing. It’s the same tilt of lips he would throw at Hanzo when he entered the room and catch his eye. It’s the same easy tone of voice he’d let rumble in him when Hanzo was close to him, their chests touching. It’s enough to break Hanzo’s restraint, he surges to him. He’s fast and Jesse is caught off by the sudden movement.

“Whoa, easy there with the hands. I don’t think this is part of the deal.” Hanzo couldn’t stop his arms from encircling Jesse. A vice like grip with one arm around the shoulder and another at his middle. He digs his fingers into the material, the armor, skin of Jesse’s back. He smells so different.

“Jesse, it’s me…” Hanzo murmurs into the crook of Jesse’s neck.  
  
“I don’t-- listen now I ain’t--” Jesse’s body is stiff and his hands are unsure, pushing gently at Hanzo to disengage from the embrace. Hanzo pulls back and snatches Jesse’s metal hand, the one he’s always worried about accidentally hurting him with, and buries his cheek into it.  
  
“Jesse. It’s _me_. T-t-tu corazón.” Hanzo’s voice cracks, still pressing into the metal palm he shoved against his face trapping it in place with his own hand over it.

“Please.” He shuts his eyes tight this time, because he can’t take the look Jesse gives him once they locked eyes. He can’t bear the raised brows, the darting of warm brown eyes, searching, trying to place Hanzo’s face. Trying to connect his features to something, somewhere, with meaning.  
  
“Hanzo?” Hanzo slowly opens his eyes, trying to not hope too hard. He won’t survive if this last sliver of hope fades to nothing.  
  
When a warm hand cups the other side of his face, he dares to look up fully.  
  
“Hanzo.” Jesse lets out in a sigh. “Anata. Mi amor.”

Hanzo’s face shatters. Tears stream down his cheeks. A sob devoid of any sense of pride or shame rips from his chest. He clutches onto Jesse’s front, nearly collapsing his knees weak from relief.

  
Jesse beats him to it and drops like a rock bringing Hanzo with him. Panic spikes in Hanzo, straight through the solace of a calmed storm.

“I ain’t,” Jesse murmurs through clenched teeth, “right.”

Hanzo peers into his face, helpless. This is beyond him. He poorly equipped to deal with Jesse’s condition. But he can get him to help. He can get him to his feet and take him somewhere safe.

“I killed them Han. In cold blood. They weren’t...they were Overwatch and I…” The pain in Jesse’s voice steels Hanzo’s resolve. He may not be able to set Jesse’s mind right but he will not let Jesse blame himself for actions he had no control over. He will not let it get hooks into the man he loves and eat at his soul. He knows all too well the arduous process rid oneself of such blame, the time needed to heal.

“No, you did not. They made you they did this. Talon did this.”

At the words Jesse curls in on himself with a pain groan, pawing at his head. Hanzo’s hands hover over him as words start to fall from his mouth.

“It wasn’t me. No. I ain’t right. Hanzo? They did something to me. Where are we? I tried to fight it. What did I do?! You can’t be here. You gotta...” Jesse jerks back, body snapping on its own accord, his mind out of sync with the rest of him, manic fear and panic overriding everything. But then he snaps his eyes to Hanzo.

“Hanzo it ain’t me. I...you gotta do it. You gotta. Do it and run.”

Hanzo freezes in place. Jesse’s eyes dart the to side, widen at something behind Hanzo. Hanzo chances a glance. Reaper’s form begins to materialize at the farthest point of the rooftop.

“You swore! Hanzo, don’t let ‘em take me! Don’t you let ‘em turn me. You fucking swore!” Jesse’s voice is high with panic, words are rushed out and pleading, Hanzo just shakes his head stunned by the words. Their meaning covering his insides with ice.

Jesse continues, the heavy steps of Reaper approaching them. “You swore Hanzo. You...please don’t let them take me. Don’t let them!”

Hanzo reaches back and pulls out an arrow. Slitting Jesse’s throat would be so easy. Or ramming it between his ribs into his heart. He wouldn’t even put a fight. He’d rather die than become a tool for Talon. Than become like Amelie. He’d made Genji swear when they found out. Then Fareeha. Angela. Lena. And finally Hanzo to swear, on his brother, he would never let Jesse be taken or if he was and it was too late to put him down. He’d rather be dead. He’d rather—

“I love you, darlin’.”

Hanzo’s arm locks, arrow tip pointed away from Jesse. He knows he swore, swore on everything he holds dear. And he thought he could. He had agreed. It only made sense. But now...

The memory of Genji’s bloodied face slams into his mind’s eye. Bubbles gurgling out of the corner of his mouth. The blood of his brother dripping off his hands. The shuddering shallow breaths.

Hanzo looks at Jesse, face torn into a grimace. “More than anything.”

He can’t do it.

He can’t kill someone he loves. Not again. He can’t spare the man he loves from a fate worse than death. He can’t add the blood of the man he loves to his already stained hands.

He can’t.

Jesse claws at his gi stretching the fabric. Tears are running down his face, “You swore. You swore on Genji.” He screams into Hanzo’s chest, who drops the arrow and wraps his arms around Jesse.

Never again.

Blue light flickers around the two huddled together. Hanzo raises his head when the heavy foot falls of boots stop feet from them, eyes alight with a vengeful electric blue.

“You did this. You--” Hanzo wants to throw himself at Reaper and rip him piece to piece,  let his dragons consume every bit of monster before him.

“I’m trying to fix this. I didn’t...I never would have done this to him, to anyone. I thought seeing you would help break the conditioning.”

“This is how you fix this? By destroying his mind?!” Hanzo’s anger births a crackle blue lightning.

“I didn’t know the extent of the conditioning.” Reaper’s shoulders sag the smallest of degrees. “I thought after seeing you he’d break out of it. He’s trained to withstand--”

Jesse pants against Hanzo. Eyes no longer seeing what’s in front of them.

“I ain’t right.” Words whispered just below Hanzo’s chin. Hanzo peers down at Jesse.

He stutters and chokes on a few words before his eyes roll back and he convulsives in Hanzo’s arms.

Hanzo lays Jesse on his back. Adjusting his body to keep him unharmed from his own actions. The uncontrolled jolts of his own muscles. Eons pass while Hanzo sweeps Jesse’s bangs back again and again, waiting for the seizure to stop.

“I have to take him back.”

“Never.” Hanzo digs his hands into Jesse’s dazed form. He’s still muttering wordlessly, hands twitching.

Reaper sighs and starts to talk. Hanzo listens despite his anger, Jesse’s weight keeping him anchored in place. With each finished sentence Hanzo’s fury is replaced with sorrow at a harsh truths as Reaper, no Reyes, lays out his plan to get Jesse right. To get rid of the conditioning used on him then out once he’s himself again. In the end it’s the only way Hanzo can see where he gets Jesse back. Sees how selfish of a man he is...

“I'll hunt you down and kill you if you’re lying to me. If this does not work.”

“If this falls through, I’ll let you.” Jesse stirs at the tail end of it. His eyes are glazed and looks around, settling on Hanzo with pinched eyebrows.

“Darlin’? I had the worst dream…” Jesse tucks his face into Hanzo’s chest, breathing in deep, a familiar act to soothe himself. To seek comfort.  

“I’ll take it from here.” Reyes reaches out and grabs Jesse’s arm to haul him up.

“What? Hanzo, what’s going on? Hanzo?” Hanzo lets Jesse slip through his hold. Selfish hope. That’s what's happening. Hanzo selfishingly hoping Reyes’ plan will work. That’ll in the end, through it all, his Jesse will be back. Hanzo doesn’t care if Jesse hates him for breaking his vow. As long as he’s himself and alive.

“You swore…,” Jesse murmurs weakly barely conscious, barely aware, knees shaky, “Hanzo… you swore.”

Hanzo raises to his feet hands empty, heart snapped in half. Jesse starts to resist against Reyes.

“No. No! Let me go you bastard.” He sees Hanzo and lunges towards him. “Hanzo!”

Hanzo doesn’t reach out his hand towards the hand stretching out to him. He numbly stoops, lifting his bow from the ground then places it over his shoulder. He keeps his gaze down, ignoring tears running down his face. He turns way, unable to bear the look of fear in Jesse’s eyes and panic ringing in his words.

But he hears Jesse’s boots scrambling against the rooftop trying to gain purchase. He hears the straining of leather as Jesse tries to pull away. Muffled grunts of what has to be a hand covering his mouth. The thuds of a fist impacting on armor. Jesse’s fighting, trying to get away. To him.

Hanzo keeps his back to Jesse. His heart falling to pieces with each step as he walks away from the man he loves.

He doesn’t look back when Jesse screams his name.  


* * *

 

“We sent the asset to be evaluated not—”

“Sent a _liability_.” Reyes’ masked face turns from Sanjay to Maximilian and Akande. “I hope you kept the receipt.”

“It was presumed you would have enjoyed a familiar face on the roster, with recruitment attempts as they are.” Sanjay rebuttals. A weak attempt at getting a rise out of Reyes. All it does is confirm a few theories for Reyes.

“Yes, who wouldn’t enjoy having to look after a half-assed brainwashed, washed up cowboy.” Reyes keeps his voice even, measured, almost bored. He can’t let the anger simmering in him surface. He can’t show them his anger. Not yet. “Ruining a perfectly trained potential asset.” Sanjay bristles.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Such imperfections coming from our perfectionists.” Sombra materializes behind Sanjay. Flicking out her wrist a screen appears for all to see. “Strike two, no?” Footage of an Overwatch raid on a Talon shell company plays. A teleporter appears, members of Overwatch piling through the last of whom is Satya Vaswani. The screen freezes on her as she begins to set up sentry turrets. Sombra thumps an elbow on the table, hand cradling her face to flash a wide smile up at Sanjay.

“Maybe third time’s a charm for them to, you know,  get it _right_.” She gives a wink and is gone.

Sanjay’s quiet fury breaking through his composed neutral mask, would give Reyes a sense of satisfaction had this meeting been about anything else at any other time. If he and the rest of the council hadn’t just tour the facility holding various developing projects. Most he’d known about, but not all.

Reyes was nearly crushed under the pillar of regret at the center of his being, when he saw Jesse strapped to a table. Second guessing his reasoning to bring Jesse back as his eyes traced the tubes connecting bags of fluids to his arm, neat and orderly wires coming off electrodes attached to his body at various points, but ones at the back of his neck attached further in. Jesse had to be kept sedated, he put up a fight to escape otherwise. He played the long con, using his training from Reyes, he nearly escaped once.

 Reyes treads carefully with the eyes of the Talon council on him. A poker game with four others to outsmart. He played heavily on the failure of the trial. Stirring up anger in Sanjay and displeasure boarding on abhorrence with at least one member at a poorly executed plan.

Reyes dug in doubt of Sanjay’s team’s capability. Could they do it or what this just a waste of resources? Of money? Maximilian never did approve of wastefulness.

Reyes leads them around and around,  a trail of thought for them to follow until finally the suggestion he’d be working towards surfaced by Moira, as he expected. She always enjoyed flaunting how she was the smartest one in the room.  

She lowered her steepled fingers, letting out a small sigh of feinted agitation. He could always count on her to look down her nose at someone else’s deficenties, pointing out the obvious solution. “You are not utilizing all available resources. Perhaps a change in methodology will produce better results.”

She tilts her head towards Reyes. “Why not employ Reaper’s presence during conditioning, given the goal is to have the subject be assigned to Reaper in the end?”

It’s decided quickly and without Sanjay being able to contest the matter. Reaper will be integrated into the cognitive reconditioning of McCree.

Reaper exhales, letting his body disintegrate, a low chuckle in his wake, the last thing Sanjay hears before stepping through his teleport is his laugh.

 

* * *

 

In the quiet of a safehouse used and forgotten long ago, alone with no prying eyes, Reyes shudders as his heart clenches. He couldn't express his trepidation in front of the Shimada brothers, in a meeting of raw exposed nerves. He hopes his warnings were taken seriously. He doesn’t need them going rogue and trying to save Jesse on their own. Not when there’s a plan in place. Not when he’s covered all the angles this time. Not when he’s finally got everything in line to get Jesse out. To save him… to save what's left of him. The blank stare, Jesse’s eyes empty of everything that made him, him directed towards Reyes, burns doubt into him.

He throws the mask across the room and screams at the wall. At the world that he saved then turned on him. That he should have let burn during the Crisis so he wouldn’t have had to deliver a person he considered family to be tortured. Who’s mind he’s letting be ripped apart in plan he fears is a misguided attempt to save him.

Again.

He only wanted to give Jesse the second chance he deserved all those years ago. A kid doing all that he could to survive, by any means available to him. To just give him a chance, a shot. And Jesse excelled. His hard work and dedication had him soaring. It was Reyes that fucked it up. And it's happening again. But this time he’s made it worse. Instead of pushing him out to spare him the ticking bomb, Reyes is throwing Jesse in the grinder while selling what's left of his soul to whoever is buying, that Jesse can be pieced together in the end.

Let him be right. Let him be able to save someone, protect someone. A prayer to any diety that would listen to his cursed soul.  Just this once. Just this one.

Gerard killed in his sleep because he wasn’t looking close enough. Ana left behind because he couldn’t get the intel fast enough about Widow. Jack because he was so focused on finding the mole he didn’t see the the landslide behind him, didn’t see the bigger picture. So many of his people, dead.

Let him save this one.

 

* * *

 

“Jefe!” Jesse’s eyes brighten and his posture straightens, the game of solitaire splayed out on the table given up for Reyes’ presence. Jesse’s reaction still catches Reyes off guard, always expecting his feature to twist with disgust, horror, anger, and everything else Jesse deserves to throw at him. Reyes strides across the common area of the facility for the ‘patients’ of the recovery ward. Clean but not too clean. There’s windows to let in natural light, a small garden area, a couch and a holoscreen. Nothing that would raise Jesse’s suspicion.

“Sure is nice to see a familiar face. These docs ain’t keen on filling me in on anything other than the weather, no matter how heavy I lay on the charm.” Jesse’s eyes track one of the staff walking way, gives them a wink. They scurry away when Reyes looks at them, not missing the blush dusting their cheeks.

Reyes does a full body eye roll. “Leave the medical staff alone, cabron.”

“Fine, fine.” Jesse’s leans back, fiddles with a card. “Must be real bad or real good news if you’re here to break it to me.”

“Bad news is you’re stuck here until you recover.” Jesse clicks his tongue, flipping over a card to toss aside huffing, nearly petulant. He always hated being benched. “The good news is, I brought you something to help things along.”

Reyes places an audio device and headphones on the table. Jesse sticks one of the speaker buds up to his ear, forgoing securing it in place with the flexible plastic to wrap around the back of his ear. His eyes narrow as he listens then points a bemused look at Reyes.

“Self help tapes? Really Boss?” Jesse plucks the ear bud out, twirls it on its wire between his fingers. Always fidgeting with something.

“Part of your recovery treatment.” Reyes holds up a hand when Jesse opens his mouth to argue. “Do as your betters tell you, listen to the tracks. It’ll keep you busy.”

Jesse slumps back in his chair. “Whatever you say Boss. Least their voice is real nice.”


End file.
